


dancing cheek to cheek

by casfallsinlove



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Engineer Dean, Established Relationship, Fluff and Smut, Journalist Castiel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-21
Updated: 2015-11-21
Packaged: 2018-05-02 18:24:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5258954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casfallsinlove/pseuds/casfallsinlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York City is still loud despite the late hour. Couples are dancing in the streets, spilling out from a club along with brash jazz music. The rain is nothing but a fine summer drizzle now, not enough to put people off but perfect for cooling their flushed faces. Castiel almost wishes he and Dean could join in, but they can't. Not here. Maybe not ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	dancing cheek to cheek

**Author's Note:**

> I did a little research for this but I am neither an expert in the jazz age or 1920s New York in general, so let me know if you spot any glaring mistakes.

The back room is hazy with cloying cigar smoke. It makes Castiel want to cough, to rid his lungs of the poison, but he represses the urge with a heavy swallow of his whiskey. He can’t do anything about the sting in his eyes though, other than blink it away.

Soft jazz music filters under the closed door, a young woman crooning about her lover’s unfaithful heart back in the club, but in this room there is only the quiet grinding of teeth as the burly men around the table observe their cards and wait, impatient but still, for Castiel to take his turn.

In his hand Castiel has a straight flush. It’s enough to win the significant amount of money in the pot, but he doesn’t say so. _Not yet_.

“Fold.” He places his cards face-down and Crowley, the unpleasant British man who runs this poker game, smirks and gathers up the bills from the middle of the table. There’s at least seventy dollars there. The thought of letting Fergus Crowley take it makes Castiel feel sick. He shoots another look towards the door, waiting.

“Shouldn’t have taken on the big cahoots, darling,” Crowley remarks snidely. Castiel exaggerates his drunkenness, making his eyelids heavy and his words thick. He takes off his jacket. He’s sweat through his shirt underneath and plucks uncomfortably at his red suspenders, pulls at the knot of his necktie.

“M’fine,” he insists. “Once more, Crowley. Please. Can't lose this money.”

Crowley looks amused but also unsure, and is just opening his mouth to speak when the door is flung open and Dean bursts through, looking for all the world like he’s just run ten miles.

“Cas,” he hisses, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“I—” Castiel falters, just as they rehearsed.

“Evenin’, fellas,” Dean says, noticing the stares on him. “Hope you don’t mind me interruptin’, I just came to take this damned fool home.”

Castiel places his palms flat to the table, as if to hang on. “No.”

“What do you mean, _no_?” Falling into a crouch at the side of Castiel’s chair, Dean whispers loudly, “Cas, this is your _inheritance_ you’re blowing here.”

Well, that definitely gets the required effect. Crowley’s mercenary ears almost visibly prick up. “I’m afraid,” he says slowly to Dean, “that your _Cas_ here has already agreed to one more game. Now are you going to stop acting like his mother and join us, or am I going to have to get my friends to show you out?”

At the door, a giant of a man with meaty fists cracks his knuckles.

One of the others, a cold-eyed dark-skinned man with a toothpick protruding from his teeth, says, “Well I’m in. This is easiest pickin’s I ever seen.”

Dean, with the air of someone who’s been greatly inconvenienced, smoothes down his waistcoat, pulls up a chair and spits, “Fine.”

After Meg has dealt the cards and everyone is focused on their hand Dean catches Castiel’s eye and winks.

They hustle Crowley and his lackeys out of nearly one hundred dollars, while all they can do is grit their teeth and fume silently as they get redder and redder in the face.

The whole walk home, Dean wears the triumph of their success like a badge of honor, whooping to himself periodically and leaping over puddles and hooking his thumbs into his suspenders. There's a swagger in his gait that's plain to Castiel’s eyes and therefore the eyes of any potential pickpockets or thieves, but at this moment in time Castiel feels like the two of them could take on the world and come out victorious.

New York City is still loud despite the late hour. Couples are dancing in the streets, spilling out from a club along with brash jazz music. The rain is nothing but a fine summer drizzle now, not enough to put people off but perfect for cooling their flushed faces. Castiel almost wishes he and Dean could join in, but they can't. Not here. Maybe not ever.

When he pauses to roll up his shirtsleeves and fling his jacket over his shoulder, he catches Dean watching the others too. Castiel’s fingers reach out reflexively but he settles for nudging Dean’s arm instead. “C’mon, let’s go home.”

The singing and laughing fades away as they cross the street into the quieter section of the city. A motor car trundles past and Dean audibly groans with longing. One day, Castiel will buy a car for Dean. They can go for drives out of the city, maybe even out of the state, where the only light comes from the stars over their heads and the only noise is their hushed breathing from where they're curled up together in the back seat.

“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” Dean nudges him, mouth quirked up into a grin.

“Huh?”

“Somethin’s got you all moony-eyed.” He takes a cigarette out of his pocket and strikes a match with practiced, nimble fingers. Castiel waves away the puff of smoke that wafts in front of his face. He never will like it, even though it's a taste he's become accustomed to kissing away from Dean’s lips.

“Thinking about you,” Castiel shrugs, truthfully. But then again, when isn't he?

“Aw, that's sweet,” Dean drawls, the same drawl that drew Castiel in all those years ago. They were practically still boys back then, a couple of runaway kids who didn't know better. Now Castiel writes the deaths and marriages column for the Post and Dean fixes machinery at the docks. They do okay.

Dean's free hand takes Castiel's wrist and before he knows what’s happening he's jerked into an alley and pushed up against the damp wall. The whole place smells of rotting food scraps and urine, made pungent by the summer heat to the point where even the rain can't wash it away. It’s not exactly romantic.

But Dean crowds closer and the only smell then is him; tobacco and mint and whiskey.

“We shouldn't,” Castiel whispers. “Not here.” But he's irresistibly drawn to Dean anyway, a moth to a figurative flame.

“Ain't no one payin’ us any attention,” Dean says, eyes fixed on Castiel’s mouth. He's right. There's no one around, and even if there were, Castiel’s starting to think he wouldn't care. How anyone could deny him this, he doesn't know. Dean is a sun god, bright and beautiful, and sometimes Castiel looks at him and is blindsided by how much he loves him.

Dean kisses him once, light. He rubs their noses together and mutters, “God, I don’t know how I ended up with the best fuckin’ guy in the whole of Manhattan. Must’ve done somethin’ real good in a past life.”

Castiel grabs him by the face and kisses him properly. His jacket crumples to the dirty ground and will therefore need to be burned at the first opportunity, but he is too busy being totally consumed by Dean to care. He will never tire of this, ever. Dean’s stubble rasps against his face and a noise catches in the back of Castiel’s throat. His fingers catch in Dean’s waistcoat, tugging him closer.

“Let’s go home,” Castiel says, the words mushy against Dean’s wet and open mouth.

Their feet slap in the puddles in their haste to get back to their tiny seventh floor apartment. Dean takes the opportunity to push Castiel against the tarnished gold grills of the ancient elevator as it trundles up and kiss him some more. Castiel frets about prying eyes for just a second before he realizes that thanks to their building still dragging itself into the 20th century the flickering, pale gas lamps that line the walls do little to illuminate anything, much less two men getting frisky in the elevator.

Inside their apartment however, it’s a different story. It’s a shoebox, but it’s their shoebox. They have two bedrooms more for pretense sake than anything else--Dean’s mainly gets used these days for his little engineering projects--and soft golden light spills into every corner when Castiel flicks the switch.

There’s a faint crackle behind him and then the sound of Louis Armstrong’s trumpet swells up, Dean grinning at him from beside the record player.

“Now _we_ get to dance.”

Castiel grimaces. “Dean, you know I have two left feet.”

“Nah, you just gotta relax.” Dean steps up in front of him and places his hands on Castiel’s hips. His palms are large and warm. “I ain’t askin’ you to do the Charleston, Cas. Just--do this with me for a bit, will you?”

And of course Castiel concedes, because he _had_ been jealous of those couples earlier, and there isn’t much he wouldn’t do for Dean. Ella Fitzgerald is crooning about summertime and Dean’s eyes are crinkled around the corners as he guides them into a gentle sway, his lips--still kiss-bitten--mouthing the words to the song.

They dance until the music ends and the needle is clicking against nothing. Dean’s back is a delicious curve under Castiel’s hands and their lips are brushing teasingly and Castiel is so riled up he might possibly combust in a minute. When Dean’s fingers start deftly undoing his shirt buttons, he _knows_ he will.

Getting to their bedroom is another kind of dance, one where they try not to fall over as they lose their clothing and bump into their mismatched second-hand furniture. Dean grunts when they’re both naked, hot skin pressed against hot skin, and they fall gracelessly onto the bed in a tangle of limbs. Castiel sucks bruises onto Dean’s chest, his stomach, the inside of his thighs while Dean writhes and gasps above him, muttering _please_ and _oh fuck_ and _God, Cas_ , his legs flexing restlessly on either side of Castiel’s head.

There is something pure about this, about taking Dean into his mouth--like he’s receiving a blessing. The church services his parents would take him to when he was young were infinitely less meaningful than this. He sat through sermons claiming that lying with another man was a filthy sin and would send him straight to hell, but right now he feels _alive_. More alive than he ever felt sitting on that hardwood pew listening to Pastor Joseph preach about God’s will. Dean is incredible like this, with his hands fisted in Castiel’s hair and his thighs trembling and shiny with spit. If God wants to strike him down, He can damn well go ahead.

The pressure in his hair gets more insistent and Castiel goes with it, allows Dean to pull him back up and kiss him something fierce while he gropes around in nightstand for the small jar of vaseline they keep in there. Dean thrusts it into his chest and Castiel takes it, unscrewing the lid with unsteady hands and scooping a liberal amount onto his first two fingers.

“Me or you?” he asks, presses the words into the space behind Dean’s ear, where his hair is softest.

“Me. God, _me_ ,” Dean whines, desperate. His hips are canting up of their own volition, making it easy for Castiel to reach down and slowly drag a jelly-covered fingertip over Dean’s hole. It makes them both shiver with need and Castiel doesn’t waste much time gently pushing inside.

They’re extremely well-practiced at this, they’ve had sex countless times, but it never stops feeling like that first time all over again, when they were young and reckless and hopelessly in love with each other. They’re not so young anymore, although they’re still a little too reckless for their own good (their neighbor Donna has had to turn a kind but exasperated blind-eye on them far too many times), and they’re definitely still hopelessly in love.

“Hey, stop spacing out on me tonight,” Dean frowns, poking Castiel in the cheek. “Do I gotta do this by myself?”

And while that is an obscenely hot mental image, there’s absolutely not a chance Castiel isn’t going to fuck Dean through this mattress and into next week as soon as they’re both ready. He adds another finger, taking them up to three, just to hear Dean groan and prove that he is definitely on task.

“Sorry. If it’s any consolation, I was thinking of our previous nights like this.”

Dean snorts, laughing softly against the juncture of Castiel’s neck and shoulder. “We’re pretty damn good at this, huh?”

“Pretty damn good,” Castiel agrees, and slicks up his cock before pushing inside Dean, achingly slow.

It’s hot and tight but the vaseline does its job and Castiel slides home easily. Dean is panting, his nails pressing half-moon marks into Castiel’s shoulders, and Castiel takes a moment for them to catch their breath before pulling out and slamming in again.

Dean howls. It’s no good telling him to quiet, and Castiel doesn’t want to anyway. He loves the sounds Dean makes, the breathless little noises and the rib-rattling moans.

“Fuck, Dean,” he grunts, anchoring his sweaty palms to Dean’s hips and thrusting wildly, the rush from their successful evening gambling still fizzing through his veins looking for release. He chases it frantically, pushing Dean further up the mattress each time he fucks into him.

Dean’s knees are shaking, his hands grabbing and sliding and slipping on Castiel’s sweaty back, but his eyes are open and bright as they lock with Castiel’s, and his rough voice is all sex and heat as he gasps out, “Please, Cas, make me come, make me come.”

So Castiel does, relentlessly hitting that spot inside Dean that makes him fall apart and taking one hand away from his vise-like grip on Dean’s hip to circle his cock, stroking in time with his thrusts until Dean is practically sobbing, body twisting like it doesn’t know whether to jerk up into Castiel’s fist or back down onto his dick.

“Love you,” Castiel growls, kissing him open and sloppy, too fired up for anything gentle at this point, “Love you so much.”

Dean’s body locks up, tense like a statue, and Castiel feels the warmth of his release coat his hand and spill between their stomachs. It makes his own hips stutter and he groans, fucking Dean through it and pressing tiny kisses all over his jaw and neck. Dean blows out an explosive breath, body sagging as he collapses back against the pillows, but still wrapped around Castiel.

“Your turn,” he rasps, and his nails graze over Castiel’s shoulder blades and down his spine, scratching at the small of his back and then grabbing his ass, pulling him in and keeping him there and Castiel soars and soars until he hits that peak and he spills inside Dean, while Dean tells him how amazing he is, over and over again, breathless and laughing.

Castiel’s arms give out fairly quickly and he slumps on top of Dean, heedless of the mess between them, content to just listen to the thumping of Dean’s heart while Dean strokes his sweaty hair. All good things must come to an end, however, and finally Dean shoves him off, complaining about Castiel being “a goddamn furnace” and ordering him to “stay on his side”.

Naturally Castiel ignores him, plastering himself instead to Dean’s back and humming happily all the while Dean pretends to be grumpy about it and half-heartedly squirms in Castiel’s arms. Eventually he sighs, allowing himself to be held, and compromises by shoving the thick covers down to their waists.

Tomorrow, they’ll go grocery shopping and have to keep their distance from each other while they argue about which butter is best, and Dean will have to lie to their neighbors about a girl he brought home so as not to arouse suspicion--Donna may be kind, but Zachariah and Michael certainly aren’t--and Castiel will have to go to work and write about the dozens of happy marriages happening this week, but right now he can forget about all that and pretend it’s just the two of them. Partners in crime, now and always.

“I’d marry you, if I could,” he says, on the end of a sigh, quiet enough that Dean could probably pretend not to hear it if he wanted to.

But instead Dean’s hand covers Castiel’s on his waist and he squeezes, thumb rubbing over his knuckles. “Me too, Cas. In a heartbeat, I would.”

Castiel swallows hard. He kisses the back of Dean’s neck and lets his eyes fall closed. He falls asleep between one breath and the next, the tiny thought of _one day_ blooming hopefully in his chest.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on tumblr @ [casfallsinlove](http://casfallsinlove.tumblr.com)


End file.
